The Witch of Tin Mountain

ALSO BY PAULETTE KENNEDY Parting the Veil This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Text copyright © 2023 by Paulette Kennedy All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher. Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle www.apub.com Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates. ISBN-13: 9781662507625 (paperback) ISBN-13: 9781662507632 (digital) Cover design by Faceout Studio, Amanda Hudson Cover image: ©Des Panteva / ArcAngel; ©Nikola Pavkovic / 500px / Getty; ©Thitisak Mongkonnipat / Getty; ©LUMIKK555 / Shutterstock; ©sema srinouljan / Shutterstock; ©getgg / Shutterstock; ©BGSmith / Shutterstock; ©Niccolo Bertoldi / Shutterstock CONTENT WARNING While potentially triggering content is mostly referenced and not depicted explicitly, this novel contains references to child abuse and neglect, including sexual and physical abuse. Sexual assault, dubious sexual consent, self-harm/suicide, addiction, alcoholism, death and dying, racism, homophobia, murder, attempted murder, fire/arson, and abortion, adoption, and childbirth are also mentioned within this novel. For Paul . . . who knew how to tell one hell of a story. CONTENTS START READING PROLOGUE ANNELIESE ONE GRACELYNN TWO DEIRDRE THREE GRACELYNN FOUR DEIRDRE FIVE GRACELYNN SIX DEIRDRE SEVEN GRACELYNN EIGHT DEIRDRE NINE GRACELYNN TEN DEIRDRE ELEVEN GRACELYNN INTERLUDE ANNELIESE’S GRIMOIRE TWELVE DEIRDRE THIRTEEN GRACELYNN FOURTEEN DEIRDRE FIFTEEN GRACELYNN SIXTEEN DEIRDRE SEVENTEEN GRACELYNN EIGHTEEN DEIRDRE NINETEEN GRACELYNN INTERLUDE ANNELIESE’S GRIMOIRE TWENTY DEIRDRE TWENTY-ONE GRACELYNN TWENTY-TWO DEIRDRE TWENTY-THREE GRACELYNN TWENTY-FOUR DEIRDRE TWENTY-FIVE GRACELYNN TWENTY-SIX DEIRDRE TWENTY-SEVEN GRACELYNN TWENTY-EIGHT DEIRDRE TWENTY-NINE GRACELYNN THIRTY DEIRDRE THIRTY-ONE GRACELYNN THIRTY-TWO DEIRDRE THIRTY-THREE DEIRDRE THIRTY-FOUR GRACELYNN THIRTY-FIVE GRACELYNN EPILOGUE GRACELYNN AUTHOR’S NOTE ACKNOWLEDGMENTS BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS ABOUT THE AUTHOR Wherever a witch’s blood is spilled, a curse remains on the land . . . PROLOGUE ANNELIESE 1831 It is too late for her. She knows this, and so she finishes her writing, scrawling the last few lines of hurried script across the parchment. A shout comes from outside, followed by the steady rumble of male voices. Her son ceases spinning his top across the floor and looks up at her, his brown eyes wide with fear. The woman closes the book and takes the little boy by the hand. “Come, Liebling.” She leads him to the trunk at the foot of her bed—hewn of strong cedar carved by her father’s hands and protected by her wards for such a time as this. She lifts the boy into it, then gives him the book. He hugs it to his chest. “You must keep this and go on, Jakob. For her sake.” A rock sails through the cabin window, smashing the warped glass to shards. The wind filters through the ragged opening, bringing the sweet fragrance of rose verbena and the fiercer scent of burning tallow. Flickering light glances off the cabin walls. The little boy whimpers and reaches for his mother. She smiles at him, presses her lips to his forehead, and buries her face in the soft darkness of his hair one last time. She closes the lid and stands, then walks to the door and opens it, a defiant smile on her face. The man in black does not smile in return. He grasps her by the wrist and hauls her out into the night, where her death awaits. Hidden inside his grandfather’s trunk, the boy remains. And the book remembers. ONE GRACELYNN 1931 Thursdays are town days, and it’s town days I dread most. People’s eyes swarm all over me like flies on a wet dog, their mean words humming like hornets around my head. They hardly wait until I’ve passed by before they spit in my path. Granny tells me to ignore it—that folks here have their superstitions and it’s nothing for me to worry over. But I’ve learned enough to know you can’t put much trust in people who want what you have on Thursdays but won’t talk to you come Sunday morning. If it weren’t for Granny, I’d be long gone from Tin Mountain and the people here who’d break me if they ever got the chance. I pick my way down the slump-drunk shoulder of the hillside, mud seeping through the holes in my Salvation Army boots. My yarb bag swings low and heavy at my hip. Inside, there’s a whole pound of fresh-picked morels and a screw-top jar full of green sludge that’ll get old Bill Bledsoe’s bowels to moving and buy us enough food for a week—if he’s feeling generous, that is. We never charge for our cures. We take whatever sort of payment folks can give. Sometimes that’s money. Sometimes it’s no more than a can of beans or evaporated milk. At the edge of town, the sweet, half-burnt smell of sawdust curls up my nose. Northrup’s Mill sits at the end of Main Street, as it has for the last fifty years. Timber and sharecropping are about the only work folks can find in these parts. And if you don’t do one of them things? I reckon you ain’t worth too much around here. “Well, lookie here. If it ain’t the high and mighty Miss Doherty.” The low drawl is followed by a puff of blue tobacco smoke, and a lanky form unfolds from the shadows next to the sawmill. A slow smile spreads across a pockmarked, narrow face that wears its twenty years hard. Harlan Northrup. All sorts of trouble, and none of it the good kind. I ignore him and keep on walking. He follows me, his big feet punishing the dirt. “Where you goin’, Gracie? Too full of yourself to stop and talk to me?” I spin to face him. “Get on your way, Harlan. I got deliveries to make.” “Is that right?” “I mean it. I’m in no mood for triflin’ with you.” I draw myself up